Adrian Hale. Number seventeen. Captain.
The ovation rolls down from the stands in waves. Clara stands at center ice with the bouquet, and when Adrian reaches her, his shoulders drop like the whole season slides off him for thirtyseconds. Her hand moves to the back of his head, and the crowd noise softens into a hum around them.
Gio. Number twenty-two.
The music swells again as he skates out. His blade edges bite the ice as he slows near center. Zoë stands there alone on the silver carpet. No parents behind her. No family flanking the flowers. Just Zoë in a dress and thigh-high boots that belong nowhere near an ice arena, holding a bouquet for a man whose family lives an hour away and chose tonight to prove the distance.
I count the empty spaces behind her. One person standing where three should be.
The cold air lifts a strand of her hair across her cheek. Gio reaches her. She hands him the flowers, and he takes them, but for one second he just stands there with the bouquet hanging in one hand and his gaze fixed on her face. His other hand finds her waist. The kiss takes its time. His hand slides from her waist to her face, and his thumb traces her cheekbone. Her fingers curl into the front of his jersey, pulling him closer.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against hers and his mouth moves. Words just for her. Her eyes close, and whatever the crowd thinks it is watching has nothing to do with what is happening between them.
From thirty feet away, it looks like the realest thing in the building.
My name. Number twenty-six.
The spotlight lands on me. The noise in the arena flattens to a wall of sound as I skate out, cold air slicing across my face. At center ice, my dad stands in the Briarcliff scarf I bought him freshman year, the edges fraying now, his hands clasped in front of him. He has the posture of a man who manages the room by standing still in it.
I get that from him. The reading. The patience. The quiet certainty that information gathered is more valuable than information announced.
Suzanne stands beside him with her hands clasped tight at her waist. Maya stands between them in a navy coat, her hair loose over her shoulders, and the sight of her there hits me harder than the noise.
I skate to them.
Dad grabs me first, his arms heavy around my shoulders. His coat smells like his car and the cologne he's worn since I was a kid. His hand presses into the back of my head.
"Proud of you, kid."
His voice comes out rough.
Suzanne hugs me next, smaller and tighter, her cheek cold against mine. "Last one on home ice," she says, and her voice catches.
Then Maya steps forward and wraps her arms around my neck.
Her face presses into my chest through the jersey, and the crowd noise dulls behind the blood rushing in my ears. I hold her the way I've held her since we were thirteen, but my grip stays too tight now, my breath too shallow. Her hair smells like lavender. Her warmth reaches me through the pads. My hand presses between her shoulders, and her ribs expand beneath my palm with every breath.
"Don't you dare make me cry in this arena, Cole Maddox," she says into my chest.
My hand tightens against her back.
To everyone watching, this is the step-sibling embrace on the silver carpet, sweet enough for the postgame photo package and harmless enough under six thousand witnesses. My fingers stay locked against her back anyway, and I keep breathing her in while her warmth bleeds through the front of my jersey.
"No promises."
She pulls back. Her eyes shine under the lights, but the tears stay where they are. She smooths the front of my jersey where her face creased it.
"I'm optimizing your postgame photo angles," she says. "You're welcome."
I laugh, and my chest loosens for one clean second. She smiles, wide and real, then rises on her toes to kiss my cheek. My skate slips half an inch on the carpet. She misses.
Her mouth lands on the corner of mine.
Half cheek. Half mouth. One second of contact, and her lips are warm against the edge of my mouth while lavender fills my lungs, my breath locks, and my fingers dig into her back under six thousand eyes.
We both inhale at the same time, sharp enough to hear. Her hand grips my jersey at the shoulder. My fingers press hard into her back before I can make them let go. She pulls away fast, wide-eyed for a fraction of a second before she smooths it out.
"Sorry," she says. "Aim was off."
